


Of Dead Dogs And Gutter Dreams

by MeechiMon



Category: Baccano!, 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 21:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeechiMon/pseuds/MeechiMon
Summary: He didn't know so much could happen with a well-placed word. Threads start to weave, inch by inch, their lines intersecting: old faces, new ones, on the search, on the run. Some poised to wait, others acting in the shadows. What was to happen, when all these actors collided?





	1. The Grand Design

It was astounding.

These lines and crosses…points of intersection. Weird relations of push-and-pull cause-and-effect. The way that these humans went about their world, unknowing of their mark. The sweet naivety of Mankind. The brink of all illusion, the self-centered sacrifice. Who knew that a well-placed word would cause so much hysteria?

Word and a war. A city up in flames. Multi-sided battlefronts constantly clashing, then receding, then clashing some more at an unknown location. A weaving tapestry of colors and sounds, the Needle of Fate threading them together into a quilt of Consequence.

He sits at the edge and watches the world collapse into chaos.

The thought comes unbeckoned: has it gone too far?

Without want, he stares at the sky, one moment with focus, then next without. Gently, he taps his temple and the sky disappears…

A dark and muted room. A man with boyish features stares at the ceiling, contemplating a thought the stranger could not see. A knife is stuck in someone’s hand, a screaming corpse the boyish man pays no heed to. A sharp-eyed man is sitting in front of the screaming corpse, saying something lost in the din. A person enters the room.

“The boss wants to see you, Prochainezo-san.”

The boyish-looking man stirred.

The stranger taps his temples again, and another scene flickers.

Three men sit at a table. The eldest-looking one is smoking a cigar, covering the already darkened air with a grayish haze. Dim lights flicker up ahead, but none of the men drew away their focus, so absorbed in their cards. The youngest of the men breaks the silence.

“So, Firo came in today.”

“Oh yeah?” Says the biggest of the three.

“Yeah. While you and big bro were out. Said he needed to talk to me ‘bout somethin’.”

“What about? This better not be about that damn Port Mafia again. We already told ‘im it wasn’t gonna happen. Not even if they’ve paid us a damn fortune.”

The younger man shakes his head. “It wasn’t that. Apparently, the Port Mafia was attacked last night. Eighteen properties. Completely decimated. Wanted to know if we had something to do with it.”

“What?” The bigger-looking man seems incredulous. “Even for Firo, that’s dumb. Why the hell would we go do something like that for?”

The younger man shrugs. “He thought maybe one of our men took it upon themselves to enact a grievance of theirs. I told him we would look into if such was the case, but I doubt we’ll find anything worthwhile.”

“Then, why bother lookin’ into it at all? That’s just a waste of our time! Don’t bother with somethin’ so pointless.”

“I don’t think it’s necessarily pointless, Berga. After all, it’s not impossible for men of our kind to have had…well, a history. It wouldn’t hurt to at least double check. We’re not a corporation, so we never bother requesting a record, but…”

“Then, make it a requirement so we don’t gotta worry about it!”

“Didn’t you just say doing something like that would be pointless?”

Their talk disintegrates into petty squabbling. The eldest of them all, the one who has not shared a single word but silently listened, places his cards face-up. Five Jokers stare mockingly at all three men.

The stranger gently taps his temple again, and the curtain rises somewhere else.

“Hey, Isaac?”

“Yes, Miria?”

A couple stands on a street corner, not far from a certain coffee shop. They wear what looks to be a mariachi set-up, with broad-brimmed sombreros and fake moustaches and even instruments. The man holds a trumpet, the woman a guitar, neither of them playing but standing out anyway. The woman points at a pair of uniformed men coming down the street from the opposite end, lost in what seems to be a heated debate.

“What do you think they’re so angry about?” She asks.

“Hmmm…” The man trails off. “It looks to be an argument. Maybe a lovers’ spat?”

“They don’t look like lovers. They look more like policemen.”

“Well, maybe they’re policemen AND lovers! Like Holmes and Watson!”

“Incredible! I had no idea Holmes and Watson were that close!”

“As thick as thieves, Miria! Author Conan Doyle was truly ahead of his time!”

“Wait, if they’re Holmes and Watson, then what are we?”

“We’re Bonnie and Clyde, of course! Renegades of the law! Untouchable! Holmes and Watson have nothing on us!”

“Nothing!”

The man stops for a moment and pauses.

“…say, Miria, what if we’re the reason they’re arguing?”

“What do you mean, Isaac?”

“Well, if they’re policemen, it stands to reason they’d be out catching criminals like us. After all, we did take all that money.”

“Are you saying them looking for us is so frustrating it’s causing a strain on their relationship?”

“No… _that’s exactly what I’m saying, Miria!”_

“Aaaaah! That’s awful, Isaac!”

“Tragic!”

“Terrible!”

“Horrendous! How have we stooped so low?”

“We _have_ to apologize!”

“Now, hold on, Miria. We can’t just waltz up to them. What if they arrest us?”

She gasps. “You’re right, Isaac! We can’t apologize if we’re behind bars!”

“But, we can’t just _not_ apologize. That’d be incredibly rude…”

“Hmm…”

The man snaps his fingers. “I got it! We’ll ask Jacuzzi for help! He’s always apologizing to people!”

“Amazing, Isaac! You’re so smart!”

As the couple incessantly chatter about nothing, the uniformed men enter a coffee shop.

The stranger taps his temples, and so too does the street disappear.

A scene near the ports, under the docks. A group of ragged adolescents and young adults sit, talking amongst themselves in excited tones. Exhaustion permeates from some of their faces, heaving short breaths. An air of nervous excitement dimming down quivers. A young man sits at the edge of the group, near the front if such order existed. His face wears an odd tattoo, and a wary expression, brown eyes shifting back and forth from over his shoulder and onto the group, watching like a hawk. An eyepatched woman and a swarthy giant sit next to him, bewitchingly calm. Their composure does little to ease the shaking youth.

A document-filled box sits at their feet.

The tattooed young man nervously sifts through the papers.

The young woman smiles. “Be careful, Jacuzzi. Never know what you’ll find in there, eh?”

He noticeably pales but swallows and goes on anyway. “That’s exactly…what I’m tryin’ to find.”

The young woman pauses, taken aback. “Why? It’s not like we need to know.”

He shakes his head. “N-No, but…well…” He trails off.

“…well, what?” She offers with an encouraging glance.

“W-Well, uhm…s-so, I…Uhm, well, ya know, uhm, it’s…not a lot.”

“…? What do you mean it’s not a lot? Were you expectin’ somethin’ more?”

“Y-Yeah! I mean, kind of…”

“A lotta trouble. For a lil’ nothing.” The swarthy-skinned giant says, eyeing the documents.

“Why does it matter? We got’em anyway. All we gotta do is give’em over and clean ourselves of the mess. I don’t wanna touting those things around anymore than you do, trust me.” The young woman sighs.

“Besides…those guys…they give me the creeps…the sooner we get this over with, the better.”

_Tap._ The stranger does it again, and the world warps right before his eyes.

A file of paper whizzes by their heads, exploding into a myriad of pages fluttering to the floor. An angry voice scolds them from behind a desk.

“What do you mean _they were taken_?!”

The stranger taps his temple and quickly changes the scene. _I see he hasn’t changed,_ and he smiles at the thought.

“U-Uhm, m-miss! Excuse me, but, uhm –aah, no! Ma’am, y-you can’t go in—”

A mousy young woman trails after a mid-teenage girl, attempting to but failing to stop her.

“Miss Eve, w-wait!”

The small girl pays no heed and enters the office regardless.

_Tap._ Another moment for another time.

The scene is now a dusky hall, with wooden tables and clear beakers. Scents like peroxide flout the air, reminiscent of hospital beds and science curtains and old X-ray screens. The room lotters with men and women, each absorbed by their own activity. Two of them, both men, sit engage in a conversation.

“Anything?” Asks the elder.

“Nothing,” replies the younger.

“Absurd. It’s been days!” The elder grumbles.

“Now, now,” chimes the younger, “Be patient. Just because we have yet to receive any further instruction, does not mean plans are stalled. For now, we must wait.”

The elder _hmphs_ , “You say that so simply. Time does not exist for someone like you.”

The younger man smiles, golden eyes gleaming. “So, it would seem. Impatience truly is a marker of youth, yes?”

This response only irks the older man, and he drops the topic.

“What about the delinquents?”

“What about them?”

“You know what I’m asking! Have you heard from them?!”

“No.”

Seeming to sense the older man’s irritation, the gold-eyed man continues.

“…However, word has it they succeeded.”

This calms the older man, his face relaxing into faint pleasure.

“I suppose even street urchins can be useful from time to time.”

“Quite, though I am surprised, Mr. Quates.”

“…? How so?”

“You are usually not so inquisitive. Do the documents concern you that much?”

“What of it? Even the most disinterested man would be curious.”

“Yes, but you are not like other men, are you?”

The older man looks ready to reply, but before he could say a further word, a short-haired woman wearing a thin black business suit walks in.

“Mr. Quates,” she calls.

“Yes?” he replies

“Mr. Meyers has just arrived, sir.”

“I see…take him to my office. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Yessir.”

The young woman walks out. The gold-eyed man wears a quizzical expression.

“Mr. Meyers?”

“Does the name strike you, Mr. Huey?” He smiles.

“Yes…though, it’s been awhile. Is it truly…?”

The stranger taps his temple midsentence and invokes a crimson-velvet scene.

Two men and a young girl are sitting in the dark, bright candlelight flickering long shadows across curtained walls. One man is sitting at a table, head-to-toe in midnight silk; the other is sitting a ways on a red-cushioned divan. The little girl is near neither of them, stomach-laying on the floor and drawing to her heart’s content. She hums faintly in the silence.

“Whatcha drawin’ there, girly?”

This was the man on the couch.

“You,” she answers blithely.

“Me?” He looks amused.

“Mm! Rintarou could _never_ pull a white suit!”

“I beg your pardon?” Says the man in black.

The man in white chuckles. “That’s a rude thing to say. Cheeky lil’ shit, ain’t ya?”

The little girl smiles. “Buuuuuut, I complimented you, didn’t I?”

“Hmm...ya do bring up a good point, miss. Alright, yeah, yer pretty polite too.”

“Please, don’t encourage her.” The man in black looks comically upset by this sudden conversation.

“Nobody asked you, Rintarou!”

“I’m only makin’ nice!”

When the conversation is about to turn into nonsense, another man pops his head through the door.

“Mori-san, Firo Prochainezo is here to see you.”

“Ah, right, right. Please, let him in.”

The young girl pouts and continues with her drawing. The man in white sits and watches the door, curiosity alight within his azure eyes. A boyish face appears at the threshold…

_Tap,_ and he returns.

The stranger’s face, once so distant, now regains its former focus, staring up at the sky in preponderance. He then looks down below, to the streets teeming with life. People and cars look like ants from this distance, crawling along…to where were they going? And to what? Did they know what was about to happen? Do they sense the precipice to which their lives hung?

Or, did they not know at all, living in ignorance of their peril? The knowledge that this city will soon be torn to shreds?

_Or, has it already?_

He could feel the world begin to quake, the threads of Fate shrinking inch by inch into a grand design. Was he watcher or weaver, sower of Descent? Was he to blame for what was about to happen? What _will_ happen?

_Well…it’s no matter._

And he watches, closer and closer, as the world descends into chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is going to be a wild ride, I'll tell you that much. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll stay with me through the entirety of this! It's a HUGE project and pretty ambitious, so I hope this captivates your interest at the very least! Have a lovely day! <3


	2. Daily Days Are Just Another Part of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a humble shop becomes a crossroad.

“…eh? Ya wanna hear ‘bout Prochainezo-san? _That_ guy?”

“If you’d be so willing.”

The sounds of murmurs and keyboard click-clacks accompany the young men’s voices. A red-headed man wearing a slant-brimmed black hat stands at the front, looking incredulous at the other. The smile worn on the blond man’s face has yet to waver. The two were separated by a low brown wall, less than half of the blond man’s height. It stopped just about the waist for the somewhat shorter red-head.

“…don’t take this the wrong way, chief, but uh…”

“Hm?”

“The hell do ya need to know ‘nythin’ ‘bout Prochainezo for?”

“Ah, well, you see, we – “

The redhead waves a glove-black hand. “Don’t give me the _this is our line of business_ bullshit you fuckers like to sell. I mean, why Prochainezo, _in particular?_ ”

“Well, why do you desire to know?” The blond looks on, unfazed by the redhead’s coarse behavior.

“I gotta right to know, don’t I?! He’s my subordinate, Port Mafia-born. Ya expect me to give up organization secrets just because?!”

“So, Prochainezo is…a confidential matter?” The blond asks with cool deliberation.

The redhead is taken aback and sputters for a moment. “What? No, I…Fuck, no, that’s not what I… _ugh._ ”

Fists clenched, he turns away. Holding back a sea of frothing rage, his jaw begins to hurt from the tension.

_I fucking hate the Daily Days._

Were Americans always like this? Taking a deep breath, the redhead readies a response.

“No…No, it really ain’t like that. I…” He sighs. “It’s just that…Prochainezo…he’s…”

 

* * *

 

Firo glances at Ladd. The elevator shakes to life as it begins a slow, dramatic descent back into the city’s underbelly, far from the boss’ light-coated aerie. The blue sky suspends overhead, horizons stretching as far as the eye could see before dropping down at the edge of the world. The buildings, once so distant, now welcome Firo back with familiar solace. His only thought is how the world seemed so small, so fragile, only just a second ago. But, the irrevocable plunge back into reality overwhelms him with an oblique oppressiveness. Firo is suddenly struck by uncharacteristic dizziness.

“Nice view, eh? Been awhile since I’ve seen the city like this.” It’s Ladd, leaning back with sangfroid leisure.

“On the plane, right?” Firo asks, trying to ignore the terrible weight pressing along his shoulders.

“Nah, I didn’t come by plane,” Ladd answers back, looking out, “I came by boat.”

“Boat, huh? Like…a cruise?”

“I…yeah, you could say that, yeah.” He chuckles.

Firo deigns another glance.

_“Firo, I would like you to meet Ladd Russo. He’ll be working with you on this assignment.”_

_Ladd Russo…_

_The name sounded vaguely familiar to Firo. He racked his brain trying to recall where he had heard it from, but he took too long. In the span of time taken between Mori’s words and Firo’s recollections, a rude silence ruled the midnight den._

_“If this, of course, presents no issue for you, Prochainezo-san…”_

_“H-huh? Oh, uh, of course not, Mori-sama. No, I’m…I’m honored to have been chosen for this mission, and personally, by the boss, to boot – “ Firo stopped and held his breath the moment Mori raised a hand._

_“There’s no need to be so formal, Prochainezo, although I do appreciate the attempt. Relax.”_

_Firo felt his entire tense body pressure drop the instant Mori said these words. A small look of relief etched itself across his face, feeling at once glad but wary still of the motive._

_It wasn’t in Firo’s nature to be so nervous. On any other day, he was a habitual blunt and forthwith speaker; very rarely did he experience any sort of anxiety on the same level he had felt then. However, Mori was…another matter. Firo respected his boss (and, at most, his life), and it’s been wired into his head repeatedly by Maiza to treat Mori with an exceptional deal of professionalism. Not to mention…it was unusual for Mori to make direct requests for low-to-mid level members. Most who were called upon often didn’t come back alive. And, those who did…_

_Firo recalled a low-level member Mori requested several years ago to investigate a certain organization. The result was the said organization’s eventual demise, AND the Ability Business Permit procured from the Special Abilities’ Division. However, in order to achieve those means, that same low-level member lost his life._

_Well, he thought to himself, it’s not as if I have a life to lose in the first place._

_This didn’t stop Firo from fretting over it. After all, he could still feel pain, and that was enough reason to keep him from acting too rashly (he thinks this with a good deal of looseness)._

_The thought donned on him that this was, perhaps, an especially unusual request – a request Mori couldn’t even give to his regular subordinates simply because the casualties were just not worth it. It wasn’t unusual for Firo to get such jobs, missions deemed too dangerous for anyone else to take on, but these were usually relayed through his direct superior, Maiza Avaro. To forego such a step…_

_Firo broke into a cold sweat. **How dangerous could this mission be?**_

_It was at this point time continued. The sounds of a drawer opening and being rattled caught Firo’s attention, and he blinked back into focus on the man in front of him. Mori muttered something incomprehensible over papers being rustled before finally holding up a printed sheet._

_There were two images of the same size and width printed on the sheet. Both contained a foreign-looking youth, but at two different angles: on the left was him facing forward, on the right, a side profile. While the individual was already striking, what made him stood out even more was the furious-looking sword tattoo printed on his face._

_Firo blinked. The face was a stranger._

_“Does he look familiar to you, Mr. Russo?” Mori asked this in clear, striking English._

_“Hm? Yeah, a lil’ bit. Why? ‘s that important?”_

_Mori smiled – Firo recognized it as the chilly smile everyone warned him to be worried about._

_“I’d like you both to apprehend this young man, if you don’t mind.”_

“Ya gonna keep starin’ at that, or what?”

Ladd’s voice reaches Firo and drags him back to reality. He’s now standing by himself in the elevator, Ladd’s hand casually placed on the entrance interior. Firo blinks for a moment, dumbfounded, then realizing he’s been keeping Ladd waiting, sheepishly chuckles and leaves.

“Yeah, haha, sorry ‘bout that…”

 

* * *

 

“Firo Prochainezo is…a special case. I can’t give ya everythin’, but from my understanding, he doesn’t hold any official rank. As in, his role in the Port Mafia _excludes_ him from holding anything official. It’s not the same as being an underling, or low-level, and it ain’t the same as holding _no_ distinction. It’s more like…well, it’s more like he’s ranked on an entirely different system, separate from the Port Mafia.”

“I’ve been told that the Port Mafia dealt in some special cases, but I thought those were just rumors.”

“Huh? I mean…it’s an organization ran by ability-users. Of course, we would – ya know what? Fuck it. Yeah, it ain’t no rumor. Even _we_ got a coupla odd cases here and there, members who don’t got a place in the hierarchy simply because of what they are. Firo ain’t the first; hell, his specific case ain’t all that unique.”

“Maiza, correct?”

“How the _hell_ d’ya know – “

“Nakahara-san, please, this process will go by much quicker if you just tell us what we want to know. I promise you. Once done, the information is yours.”

Chuuya swallows back a further complaint and continues with gritted teeth.

“Yeah…yeah, we got Maiza. Another special case…” Chuuya relaxes as he thinks about his subordinates – nay, his coworkers. In a system devised entirely of another sector, Chuuya wasn’t sure WHERE they stood, just that they stood and nothing more.

“…Look, I don’t know how much more you’re expecting me to tell you. I can’t say much. Even their _specialness_ is confidential.” The Port Mafia’s number one rule _loosen your tongue lose your life_ , crosses through Chuuya’s mind and he faintly shudders. “All I can say is this: they’re given jobs either deemed too dangerous for even executives to handle, or too miniscule for us when our numbers are thin. In a way, you could consider them our _last resort_ when it comes to a problem.”

“And you only have two, correct?”

“…Yeah, just Maiza and Firo. They’re the only ones with that specific distinction. Is that all?”

The blond man considers, then nods after a silence.

“Good,” Chuuya remarks with sudden assertion, “now, to hell with you and your agency. Where’s my information?”

 

* * *

 

A sleek, gray car approaches a building. It settles to a hum, then a curb, and pauses to dispense. Onlookers passing by, hurriedly ignoring the building and the site, notice the car and stop to admire its smooth physique. With its cleanliness and upkeep, its streaks and its build, even the most inexperienced car lover would recognize its expensive price value, an unusual sight for the normal Yokohama citizen. Only a few remain to straggle and stare, but eventually even they were onslaught to move, to go on with their seemingly benign day.

From out the car, two young women appear on the street.

“Is this it?”

“Y-Yes, Miss Eve. This is, uhm…”

_“Take her to the Daily Days, Miss Alcott. They’ll know what to do.”_

Fitzgerald’s words echo within her mind, relapsing small bits and pieces of her memory into motion. Shutting her blue eyes tight, Louisa takes in a trembling breath and slowly breathes out through her small nostrils. She steadies herself, her soul, for what was about to come. The depths of hell await in the small, cramped office ensuing with noise and heat, people and voices and people…all over, all moving…scuttling like worker bees in a hive of honey.

The Daily Days were a known entity to the Guild; a renowned underground information shop covering as a small-time newspaper print, the Guild maintained a close business connection with the Daily Days and were, in fact, one of their best paying customers. Louisa often used the Daily Days’ information herself when devising the Guild’s strategies.

However, she has never once set foot in any of their physical locales. Oh no, almost all information bought and paid for were done over the phone by the Guild’s figurehead, Francis Fitzgerald, and supposedly in the past, Herman Melville. No one outside of the Guild’s upper echelon maintained any sort of human contact with the Daily Days; Louisa’s sudden appearance within their threshold would be considered taboo.

Fitzgerald’s words once more haunt her on the street.

_“According to the official reports at home, the Guild is no more. Theodore, or whatever his name is, made sure to that. It’s annoying, but even if the Daily Days are aware that I’m alive, our institutional relations no longer exist. I need you to act in my stead as not only Miss Eve’s escort, but my diplomat, old sport.”_

_…but why send **me**?!_

Fitzgerald knew Louisa’s strengths did not lie within her ability to socialize. She could not make a strong, assertive case for the current Guild with her shy and wilting demeanor. Whatever sort of diplomacy Fitzgerald desired, it certainly wouldn’t come to be.

_When I asked him, all he said was that there was a large bargain sale he couldn’t afford to miss all the way across town!_

However, he did give her one little tip. She has no idea what it means, but she supposes it’s better than nothing:

_“If negotiations start to break down, you need only mention Melville’s name.”_

The Daily Days were an entirely neutral organization; even with the Guild, they treated them the same as any other customer. Louisa understood there was an exchange of information; it was a known part of the Daily Days’ transactions. However, she herself did not know what kind of information was exchanged. That knowledge was only privy to the likes of Fitzgerald. There was nothing in the world that could make the Daily Days budge, or even provide you with any sort of upper leverage.

So, why would Melville…?

“Will they really help me find my brother?”

Eve’s frail voice catches Louisa’s ears. Within the context of the sound, Louisa detected hope and doubt, a conflict of emotions. Uncertainty. It seems ridiculous, knowing well the Daily Days’ reputation, but when Louisa considers Eve’s position, it doesn’t seem that odd.

Eve is a young girl. Fifteen. With doe, ambergreen eyes and midlength blonde hair tied back in a ribbon, she gave every onlooker the impression of childlike naivety. Unlike most members of the Guild, she grew up in a loving and well-to-do family home. Never once had she gotten her hands dirty for the sake of survival or greed. While it could be assumed by many that she’s ignorant of the world’s troubles, Louisa knew that this wasn’t necessarily the case. Eve had a certain maturity, a certain _self-awareness_ , that granted her a modicum of selfless love and thought. This, in turn, rewarded Eve with a certain strength of faith.

However, right now Eve seems like every other docile girl, and perhaps this was true to a certain extent. But, Louisa knew this passivity was only a temporary state. To come all this way from America, all on her lonesome…that required a type of bravery beyond Louisa’s caliber.

Louisa felt a sprig of envy at the thought, but one blossomed from the roots of inner admiration.

Clasping her hands and steeling her face, Louisa pulls herself together for the sake of the young mistress.

“Yes. The Daily Days have…never failed us once. Their information can be, uhm, trusted. If anyone knows where Mr. Dallas has gone, it would be them…”

Despite the occasional pauses and _uhms_ , Louisa’s voice was steadier than before. Eve’s gentle face relaxes, but Louisa could still discern Eve’s apparent apprehension. Without saying another word, Louisa steps forward and braces herself to enter the building…

Then, she stops dead in her tracks.

“…hey…”

Louisa pales at the sound of his voice. A slim, petite man stands in front of the entrance, having just exited the shop a second or two ago. He was dressed in all black, save for his feather-gray vest and the red hatband flaring like a stop sign. Uneven fox-orange hair rests lazily against his right shoulder. Blue eyes, the most dark and deep blue Louisa has ever seen, widens at the sight of her face.

“…you’re…”

_Nakahara Chuuya, one of five Port Mafia executives._

Her knees begin to buckle under the weight of her fear, but she stops herself before falling over completely.

_What is **he** doing here?!_

The same question is running through his own mind.

“…you’re that Guild girlie, right? The one with the plans?”

His line of questioning causes her to panic even more.

_He knows who I am?!_

“I-I…uh…I…”

Louisa is at a loss for what to say. If she admits her identity, she admits to all the crimes committed on her word from the recent conflict. However, Louisa did not have the bravery to _lie_. Besides, what _could_ she even say? It was possible to brush it off as him being merely mistaken; after all, the two never met formally in person until today, but would he even _buy_ that?

Silence reigns upon them, with only Louisa’s confused and panicked muttering to intersperse the space with sound. Chuuya’s dark blue eyes only kept getting less and less pleased overtime. As for Eve, she wasn’t aware of the rather short, but turbulent, history between the Guild and the Port Mafia. Hell, she didn’t even know who Chuuya _was_ , and why Louisa was so frightened by his sudden appearance.

He looks kindly enough, in Eve’s eyes. Although he had rather gentle features for a man, it isn’t unbecoming or unpleasant to look at. Quite on the contrary, he’s rather handsome. And it’s quite apparent from his attire he isn’t short on cash.

Save for his nasty expression, nothing about him screams villainous.

Sensing that this situation would neither desist or de-escalate anytime soon, Eve steps forward and gently grabs Louisa by the arm.

“Excuse me, sir,” she addresses the stranger, “there’s an appointment we must attend. If you would please…”

She trails after, but the stranger seems to understand. After a second or two of deliberation, he huffs and moves aside, letting them go.

“Thank you,” Eve says with a smile. Louisa gulps and straightens herself, somewhat leaning on the smaller girl as the two begin to enter the shop. As Eve passes the stranger, she hears him mutter under his breath.

“The next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This took me...forever for some reason. In the midst of college and real life, I was finding it hard to sit down and write everything out. But, here we are! It's really late, but this update is here! If you got to the end of this, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter all the same!


End file.
